He's surprising, their boy from San Francisco. Armand's eyebrows inch upwards and his expression brightens with a genuine smile of amusement, showing his teeth. He laughs lightly, turning to walk back over to the edge of the pool.

"Yes, and sell the Basquiat on the street, next to the television sets and the old newspapers?" A derisive noise, before he settles again, becoming more sombre. He spends a moment in thought, then returns his gaze to Daniel, the lambent copper disks holding steady.

"Is this what you wanted to talk about today, Mr Molloy? Nerve cell death? Garage sales?"